Greg White wants people to know, ‘If I can overcome my insecurities in a hostile environment, so can others.’
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I wrote my memoir to chronicle the adventures I’ve enjoyed sharing with my friends over the years. At first glance, you may think me the well-dressed man who knows which fork to use, and not the man in camouflage who can hit a target five hundred yards away with an M16. I may not fit the military mold, but I don’t know how to be anyone but myself—and being myself hasn’t always been comfortable, or even safe.
When stories of bullying LGBT youth started gaining attention, and some of those tortured chose to end their own lives, I wished they’d had a moment of hope long enough to get past that hateful experience and survive. I wrote this book not just for me, but also for those struggling in the military and elsewhere. I wanted to show that if I can make it through boot camp, anyone can; if I can overcome my insecurities in a hostile environment, so can others.
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Private Bowman wanted to come back from boot camp not just a Marine, but also a regular-sized one. I asked if it hurt when the drill instructors called him lard-ass and made the whole platoon drop and exercise when he couldn’t keep up.
“I deserve that shit, but you guys don’t. Sorry.”
McKinnon blew a short whistle blast and we got quiet and attentive.
“Sgt. DiBello will demonstrate.”
There was a four-foot long metal bar suspended from the ceiling of the quarterdeck. I’d seen the long, lightly rusted iron bar as I went to the head, but I thought it was part of the crude government plumbing system. DiBello leapt up and grabbed it. I hoped the pipe didn’t pop off and start spewing water from DiBello’s macho antics. He started doing pull-ups on the bar, up and down, with his feet crossed almost delicately at the ankles. His pace was rapid, and his armpit hair quickly grew wet and matted from sweat. I’ll never be him pumped into my mind with each rep.
McKinnon stood next to him, out of danger of being hit by the bobbing DiBello, and commanded our attention.
“You must use this form, recruits. No kipping, no excess swinging to get you up and over my fucking bar. Do you understand?!”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
All I understood was that DiBello was on about his thirtieth. He looked down at McKinnon and smiled the smile of cockiness before dropping down from the bar. His boots hit the cement deck in a solid, precise slap. He grabbed his T-shirt and wiped the sweat off his chest, which might have dried it, but to me he was swirling the hair around and around on his chiseled body into an even more desirable display.
I’d never done a pull-up in my life, just as I’d never run a mile or showered with others. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to do one, let alone three, and that meant that Dale and I would be separated, as promised upon our enlistment.
I had no idea if anyone else was freaking out. Dale gave me his assured not to worry look, and I wanted not to worry, but when I am in full-panic mode, I am like a jet falling from the sky—there’s just no controlling it.
DiBello stepped aside and McKinnon started calling our names from the roster on the worn brown clipboard he always held. Marks hopped up and quickly pumped out three pull-ups. He kept going, but McKinnon tapped his swinging legs.
“Save it, Private, just need three today. Next!”
I took a breath to psych myself up; I figured it was easy for Marks since he was so short—he had less body to pull up. He smirked as he dropped off the bar.
Dale hopped on and also did three without any effort. I knew Dale could have done fifty. I wished he could loan me some if I came up short.
McKinnon held his clipboard and ticked off names as each recruit hopped off the bar successfully.
“To pass my physical fitness test, you must do a minimum of three pull-ups, forty-five sit-ups in two minutes, and you complete a three-mile run in under twenty-eight minutes.”
All of those goals sounded impossible, and so far away.
DiBello circled the quarterdeck.
“You’ll be in the best shape of your lives when you get out of here, recruits. Your idiot girlfriends will need both hands to count all your abs. Work really hard, and she’ll need to take off a sock.”
Bowman was next. He so very white and chubby that he looked doughy. He tried to hop up and grab the bar, but he missed. We laughed. McKinnon was quick to yell.
“Shut the fuck up, Privates. Give this recruit the chance to get up there.”
He walked close to Bowman, who I know hated this attention. McKinnon leaned in close to his ear. I figured his extra encouragement would help Bowman get over his confidence issues.
“Get the fuck up on that bar, you fat piece of shit!”
I didn’t see that coming.
“You are taking too much time, you roly-poly motherfucker!” He was really screaming, his face red from the effort. Bowman jumped, and he fell to the ground again.
“Get up on that goddamned bar. You sat at home eating all that pizza and now you want to be in my Marine Corps? Not if you can’t give me some fucking pull-ups, you fat, stupid loser.”
Bowman stood under the pull-up bar. I knew part of what he was thinking, and how much was riding on this test for him. I silently wished him well. The German philosopher Goethe has a great line about how, at the true moment of commitment, the entire universe conspires to assist you. I wanted to beam that to Bowman’s mind. I also needed that credo for myself.
His eyes darted to McKinnon as he jumped up and caught the bar. I smiled, relieved. Bowman’s T-shirt flew up and a roll of flesh popped out, making it look like his middle was encircled by a giant, milk-soaked Cheerio. The fat middle he hated was now shamefully and obviously bared. It looked like it wasn’t part of his body and that it might slip off, making his mission easier. I was happy that he was able to grab the bar at all. He hung there for a second, although I’m sure that in his mind it was forever.
I moved in closer and looked up at Bowman, thinking about how wrapped up I’d gotten in his personal story. I’d sit on the floor of the squad bay listening to my new friend fantasize about walking into his parents’ house, dressed in his Marine Corps uniform, and their shocked look as they almost didn’t recognize their now-thin son. It sounded like he believed his life would be different and that they would now love him. Just like on the bus, I liked him but felt glad not to be him. I’d always wanted to be someone else, someone better than what I thought societal standards dictated I was to be, so to see someone who might have less of a chance of measuring up than I did was new.
He pulled himself up, but only his arms moved. They bent at the elbow, and what muscles he had became tight. His feet kicked out into the air like it was water with resistance he could use to push his body up. His arms shook, and his face got really red, really fast. His bulging eyes narrowed, and his lips pulled back against his clenched teeth. Every part of him was working hard.
He released his arms back to straight. His body hung there, but he didn’t let go of the bar. DiBello stepped up close, tilted his head back on his thick, muscled neck, and barked at Bowman.
“You fat ass bastard, pull your goddamn entire body up on my bar!”
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Editors note: This is the second in a series of excerpts from Greg White’s personal memoir. Read Part 1 here.
Photo: The U.S. Army/Flickr
The post The Pink Marine: Fitting the Mold (Part 2) appeared first on The Good Men Project.
